Rite of Passage

[This is a follow-up to a previous post about The House, where I shared studio space with other artists in Phoenix. If you see names or references that you don't understand, you'll probably find an explanation in the earlier post.]

The House closed with as much enthusiasm as might be expected from a large crowd of artists, poets, musicians and friends. I saw the full range of The House’s history and tenants during the farewell party on 14 April. Some I did not recognize but along with the many I did know, they made for a high energy night. Much alcohol flowed from copious contributions by guests and Shelly’s keg of Fat Tire. The sweet smell of pot was in the air. The mood was festive. Many of us reminisced about our experiences and events and noted the closing of a chapter in our lives but the atmosphere was anything but funereal.

Everybody’s stuff was mostly out of The House itself and the back building known as The Barn, already loaded into the shipping container whose doors opened into the yard through the fence. (Not entirely unlike those 40 yard dumpsters that were so integral to our first weeks there in 1994.) Even so, The House was far from empty, filled with abandoned materials, battered kitchen appliances and debris. The bulldozers will soon come; there’s no sense trying to clean up. Somehow, people managed to wander through, around and over any impediments. No injuries were reported, which is pretty amazing, given the impaired state of many persons in attendance.

The party began in mid-afternoon on a bright, sunny spring day. Probably no more than six to eight people were there when I arrived around four o’clock. Robert and Dan Frenette were noodling around with guitars. Not long after, more people arrived. Some, like Luis Gutierrez, I’d not seen in years. Others I’d never seen. Musicians and poets alternated on the stage as afternoon became evening. Jules Dinehdeal told stories of her time with us at Central Studios before we moved to The House and read from Cleopache, her 1995 collection of poems. When Jules invited others to share their House stories, no one responded immediately, and not one to pass up an open mike, I told some of my experiences, including the installation of the massive swamp cooler hanging off the second story of The Barn behind the audience. I also remembered my time at The House as a time of no war, which sent me on to a riff about the current time of war until Maggie called me back to the subject at hand. I could look around these run-down, chaotic premises and see many, many friends and recall great experiences. It was a clear reminder that life has been good to me.

The sequence of events for the remainder of the night is a bit vague. Leslie Barton performed a song about “You and Your Fucking Dog” and another song I didn’t catch too much of. Leslie has a long association with The House and the artists there. Many of us met her at Central Studios the year before we moved into The House. She’s been reading poetry and performing ever since. Leslie’s Bad Xmas Pageant performances are legendary. Brian Flagard read, with Jules holding a lamp for light on the now dark stage. His story told of the Night of Revolution and Anarchy at Central Studios, an event that led, six months later, to The House. Virtually all of the principals from that night were in the audience as he recounted the details: the vodka, Shostakovitch building to a cresando, Alexi sentimental for lost Russian kin, the paint, the roof top, the police, the aftermath. All there on this final night at the The House.

Other poets read while I wandered among the crowd enjoying the company of old friends and new acquaintances, amazed at the mass of bodies circulating through the building. Jeff Cochran, one of the original House artists, pulled in around 9:00 pm after driving down from New Mexico. Delaney Dickerson, who was at Central Studios with us showed up. So did Dave Salcido who shared space with Shelly at Faux Café before Central. The night was one to celebrate my good fortune with those who gave me so much.

The kitchen was as functional as ever, the sink cabinet listing backwards as it had since we installed it in the first months. Jules'daughter, Lauren, made a most excellent pot of vegan chilli that went down well with beer and with baguettes. Chooga’s studio was still intact, work in progress on the wall. The House computer and phone remained on the table from The Great Hall of Integrity. The entire back end of The House sloped, as it always had, at an angle on this sinking addition. Robert’s studio was stripped of all his art and materials, a large mound of trash in the middle of the room. The ceiling was long gone, open to the rafters above. The walls splattered with paint. The old Great Hall and front rooms were the wood shop, a more level application than in a previous configuration. Scrap lumber and frame materials littered the floor and storage racks, sawdust covered the floor. Robert’s large paint covered work table remained, filling much of this space. The front sunporch was filled with bike parts, old frames, a dead table saw and other clutter. Shelly and Julie still occupied my old studio, its ceiling also open to the rafters but the space partially filled with red cloth looped down between rafters. Pretty nice effect. The outside door now worked and the space had an open, light, airy feel. The room and sunporch were among the most Spartan, Shelly’s and Julie’s stuff was minimal and compact. The space seems to have weathered well the last 13 years of occupants. I was first. Shelly was last. In between were Steve Yazzie, Jack Evans, others and Paul Michuta, Chooga’s son who made the last film shot at The House. The room had good vibes for me.

A DJ kept music going throughout the evening. At one point I went out to my truck and lay down the camper shell, which is tricked out for that very purpose (camping, actually but always good for horizontal time). Just getting off my feet and closing my eyes for a while renewed me a bit. When I returned, The House was filled with people, the only one of whom I recognized was Jules, deep in conversation with others. I found Robert and April upstairs, listening to Mike Little sing and play guitar and harmonica. He’s very good, polished and the songs I heard were well done.

The upstairs is an intimate space, with ceilings that crowd in as the roof reaches to its peak. The center is probably seven feet, the walls half that. Mike played in the center front where the roof opens under a dormer window. Tea lights laid out in front of him gave the room a warm feel. The north roof slope has a large window that offers access to the roof. That was our access when Robert and I installed the cooler there. I dug a bullet out of the roof during that installation.

By now it’s almost midnight, way late for this normally early riser with the incontinent dog. I’m doing the radio show in the morning, too. I thank Robert and April for everything, say my farewells and head home on Phoenix’ wonderfully uncongested late night freeways. The party’s over but a few more acts remain. Robert told me during the evening that they would not be pulling out at noon Sunday. More likely Monday morning.

Sunday morning I thank my previous night’s moderate intoxicant consumption for the lack of a hangover but I am tired. I do the radio program and stop at The House afterward. Robert, April, Chooga and, I think, Dan Frenette are there. Even with all the added party debris, nothing looks particularly different. We talk about what they’re leaving behind and what they might want. April wants the table from the Great Hall of Integrity for a future studio but they don’t have room. Maggie and I offer to take it–we can always use another table for our myriad sorting and packing tasks and don’t want to see that piece of The House disappear quite yet. Robert asks for my help in the morning loading their bed and a few other large items so I agree to return with Maggie then. I go home, meet the man who gave us Prince, The Dalmatian, 14 years ago. Maggie had tracked him down with the original paperwork he’d given us and we invited him to see how his companion given for adoption fared. He was pleased to see Prince and hear of his life and adventures. Sunday evening is also the first birthday party for the radio station. It’s not far away, in Scottsdale at some fancy club. I get a VIP wrist band but it’s still a cash bar. I stick around long enough to be introduced as one of the weekend program hosts. The free food isn’t out yet so Maggie and I head to find food and finally, sleep.

Monday is cooler, even a bit overcast. Robert and April are still doing laundry and packing when I arrive. We can’t load the bed and other items until after the dryer. In the meantime I help as I can, moving items from the bedroom in “the barn”and the main building. Maggie is in full salvage mode and is particularly incensed because she knows the new owners will not bother to save the 1910 wood floor with its-impossible-to-find old-growth tight grain. I’m sure this deal is so big the money from the floor would be peanuts. It will be sad to loose something that rare, though. She identifies the old dryer, the washer and 75 gallon water heater for salvage. And still the bamboo, or pampas grass or whatever this fast growing vegetation is, remains. There appears to be some uncertainty. Plants and other living things are pulled from everywhere. The internet and phone connections go down. Shelly and Julie take their leave; they will spend another day or so at friends before heading to meet Robert and April at their place in Santa Fe. Fifty Dollar Bill, a neighboring artist/DJ pries the security door from the barn with a wrecking bar. He’s taking the old washing machine and leftover organic and vegan food, also. We load the dryer and then the queen mattress, box springs and futon sofa frame. Almost done now. Boxes of final things are crammed into a few convenient open spaces on the container or vehicles.

The dogs wait, sometimes confined, sometimes free. Willie, the black, white and tan basset hound, the older but smaller of the two, and Nancy, a bull mastiff and basset mix. I did not mention any dogs in my previous story, a serious omission that I will correct right now. The House was home to at least six dogs that I know of. Willie and Nancy are the most recent. First was Sarah, Robert and April’s basset-Labrador mix who came to Arizona with them in 1992. She’s even listed on the first Art Detour advertisement along with all the artists. Yazzie’s dog, Josh, was also there at the beginning; he’s in the photo that appeared in the paper in March 1995. Then he was gone. Max was another canine resident. There’s a story behind his arrival but I don’t know it. He came after I moved to Window Rock but I recall seeing him, a large, old, gangly black dog who somehow fit into a chair that he adopted. I believe he ran across Fourth Street and was killed by a car. David Lewis did a wonderful painting of Max in dog heaven, his long legs curled into that impossibly small chair. During that same time, Charlie, the peacock also lived at The House. He had the run of the yard and his own pen by the barn. There may be other dogs but I only know Hazel, a mixed breed hound whom Robert and April adopted in Portland after Sarah died. Hazel was an escape artist and also met her fate on Fourth Street. Two dogs, one peacock, all buried here at The House. Willie and Nancy have a long ancestry here.

Mid afternoon now, a little rain falls, sending us scrambling to get the last items under cover. Robert closes and locks the doors on the shipping container. Final items go into the cars. The Great Hall Table is in my truck. Maggie’s got other salvage. The storage company will pick up the shipping container tomorrow. We take a short break. Robert says it will be strange not to have The House to return to. They won’t need The House, though, not with almost three acres south and east not far from Santa Fe. Robert has already said he won’t miss the dirt at The House. We offer farewells, hugs, good wishes and promises to stay in touch. We know we will, so the parting is just a change to another place and time in the progress of life. Robert leads out in his Tundra, its camper-covered bed packed full, towing a small U-Haul trailer. April follows in her Forester, also full including Willie and Nancy. They head toward the freeway, into a 500 mile trip just as Phoenix rush hours begin at three o’clock.

Maggie runs another errand in the area. I head home to wrangle dogs and food. Maggie and I unload the Great Hall Table and she heads back to The House to help Chooga clear out his studio in the now unpowered, unlighted building. Over the next few days, Maggie makes a couple more salvage trips and finds the dryer gone from the front porch and the scrap aluminum from Robert’s travel trailer rehab project also gone. The combination stove, reefer and sink from the old travel trailer and the water heater from the bathroom are gone when I stopped in a few days later. The fence has been tagged with graffiti, the back gates are falling off. Some of the old chimney bricks that paved the patio are gone.

The weekend after the final party, Maggie helped members of the Phoenix Permaculture Group remove bamboo and plants. An artist in the group pulled out old window frames and glass for found material. The barn has been open since Monday. Now the main building is too. Soon a fence will surround the property and demolition will commence. During the last days we wondered what kind of karma the new structure will have. We hear condos but no one knows for certain. We do know for certain that The House will always be part of that space and our time in Phoenix.